Cold Comfort
by Natmonkey
Summary: Upon hearing of Leandra Amell's tragic death, Vael takes it upon himself to try and comfort his fearless leader. Things don't go as planned and that is putting it mildly.


_Have your grandma bring the car around.  
_

* * *

He finds Hawke in her library, morosely staring into the fireplace. The fire seems to have long since died out; nothing but a few glowing embers remain. Her expression turns sour as soon as she catches sight of her visitor. "I don't need any vaguely comforting platitudes from you, thanks." Her voice doesn't have the usual ironically comical tone to it, only fatigue. How could she sound normal, after what she's been through? "You can find your own way out, I'm sure."

Without a word he gives her the bottle of strong brandy, then softly squeezes her shoulder. Hawke looks strangely at her gift, but only for a brief moment. She uncorks it and takes a long swig that makes her otherwise lovely face twist in an unattractive manner. This doesn't stop her from taking another. "I'm sorry about your mother, Hawke," he finally says. "She seemed nice." Ah, and there it is. A platitude. He has no idea what her mother was like, because he has now come to the Hawke mansion a grand total of two times. Previously the noble mabari in the living room had taken up all his attention, while he'd only greeted Leandra Amell in passing. And now she is gone.

"You're just pulling that out of your ass, Sebastian." The young woman sighs. "Yes, my mother _was_ nice. Too nice for this world, apparently. Maker, I'm glad Gamlen has taken it upon himself to tell Beth." She gulps down some more booze and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. "Oh dear, where are my manners? I'll get you a glass."

Gently Vael keeps her rooted in her seat by placing his hands on her shoulders. "This is no time to think about your manners. I know you're in pain now, but the Maker has a plan for-..."

"_How fucking dare you!_" Hawke jumps up to face him. "Don't come to me with the horseshit your Chantry shovels down your throat," she hisses menacingly. "Don't tell me..." The rage in her words quickly morphs to sheer grief. A desperate sob constricts her throat. "Don't..." Tears come streaming from her eyes as she weakly pounds her fists against his chest. "Don't tell me..." Finally she breaks down sobbing.

Before she can crumple on the floor in misery, Vael pulls her into his arms and holds her close. There is nothing else he can do for her. Hawke clings to him like a lifeline, his tunic bunched in her fists and her tears soaking the fabric. Soothingly he runs his hands up and down her quivering back, until her heartrending sobs gradually die down. "It's not your fault, Hawke. There was nothing you could have done." Another platitude; he is on a roll tonight.

"I could've been quicker." She bitterly chuckles into his chest. "I could have caught that crazy bastard years ago, but I wasn't fast enough. I suppose _you_ might say that the Maker punished me for this by taking my mother away."

"Sweet Andraste, what do you take me for?" he sputters in protest. "I would never say such a thing."

"Wouldn't you?" Soft lips and warm breath graze his neck. "You smell very nice, Sebastian." Thick though it may be, her voice has taken on a distinctly sultry tone.

And suddenly it's much hotter in the room. Or is that just him? The prince is acutely aware of the fact that an attractive young lady is only a hair's breadth away from him and obviously willing to get even closer. The last time that happened, is too long ago to even remember in detail. Not that thinking about his whoring days in detail would do him a lot of good. Maybe he should say something. Anything. Just to break the tension. "Thank you, I use a soap made from-..."

"Lily-of-the-valley," Hawke supplies breathlessly. "I love that scent! Hold still." The next moment she's buried her face in his neck, sniffing like a dog. With an awkward chuckle, Vael lets her have her way. And here he thought she was trying to seduce him. Finally Hawke tears herself away from him with obvious reluctance and clears her throat. "Right, sorry. Sometimes I get carried away." After this short burst of merriment, her shoulders slump again; her expression becomes pensive, with a hint of suspicion. "Why are you here anyway?"

"Varric told me about what happened, and I just..." He doesn't want to say that the first thing on his mind was to comfort her. "I thought you might need somebody to talk to." That was the reason the dwarf had come to see him. Nobody else would take it upon themselves to speak with her. They can't face their leader as a broken mess; that's what Varric says, at least. Why the storyteller just doesn't take care of it himself, is beyond him. It doesn't matter though. Vael would have come of his own volition anyway.

Hawke saunters back to where she left her booze. "Talk is cheap," she scoffs, before taking another long pull. "I do appreciate the liquor, though. Thank you." The bottle doesn't leave her lips until it is fully empty. Afterwards she promptly hurls it at the wall. The glass shatters into a shower of razor-sharp splinters, which Vael only just manages to dodge. "Guess I'll never know what Fenris finds so pleasurable about that," Hawke mutters cryptically. "Hey, are you hungry?"

"Eating in the middle of the night is bad for your health," the prince replies without thinking. He is too used to peckish Chantry sisters disturbing his sleep during their midnight raids on the cupboard. Perhaps this disturbed sleeping pattern is the reason for his hairline already receding at his tender age.

"Why, thank you for that useful information." The young woman performs a mocking curtsy. "Thank the Maker potent alcohol does absolutely no damage at all."

Vael feels the corners of his mouth twitch; at least Hawke seems to be regaining some of her regular wit. "Point taken." When she falls over during the process of smugly trying to walk away, he catches her again. Blood rushes to his face; the breasts resting against his midriff are incredibly soft. He had almost forgotten what those felt like. "Maybe you should just try to sleep, Hawke." A miracle. His voice betrays nothing whatsoever. No answer. "Uh, Hawke?" This time, his only answer is a sudden snore.

With a slight chuckle, Vael picks the girl up. She feels as light as a feather. Thanks to Isabela's incessant bragging about her short-lived fling with Hawke, he knows more or less where her bedroom should be. Those must be the stairs they climbed while they were 'devouring each other's mouth like hungry wolves'. He'd only read that awful short story from the pirate's paltry pen because she would not leave him alone about it. It was very vivid in its descriptions and explicit. Briefly he looks down on the sleeping woman's face. Hawke and the busty pirate, two beautiful women, in the heat of ecstasy. Once upon a time he would have paid good money to see that. Even more to participate. Those days are long behind him, however.

He studies her features. She looks so mournful, so troubled, and yet... It is quite possible that Hawke is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. And Vael has seen his share of women. Some had larger breasts, or longer legs, a tinier waist, maybe a more rounded behind, but none had such a lovely face. The desire to touch her in more intimate ways overtakes him out of the blue. Abruptly he shakes his head. What is he thinking? He's made peace with his celibate life years ago, and this poor thing has only just lost her mother to a murderous madman. Shame on him.

This must be the place. The door opens without a single creak. Hawke's bedroom is smaller than expected. Gingerly Vael lowers her onto the four poster bed. Her already short skirt rides up quite a ways and reveals her gorgeous thighs. Rather than feast his eyes on them – which he would like to, but, dear Maker, that is so _inappropriate_ – he attempts to cover them again. The feeling of his fingertips brushing the velvety skin makes him want to do even more than just look.

Why is his desire suddenly so strong? It makes no sense. For years he has lived around women without a single sinful thought. Usually those women are on the elderly side and not as beautiful as Hawke, though. That might be it. Everything about her is just so bloody attractive. Somehow he finds himself hovering over her, his lips only a hair's breadth away from hers. The young woman cracks open one lovely eye. "Won't your blessed Andraste get jealous, seeing us like this?" she whispers teasingly. Not even the gust of severely alcoholic breath that accompanies her words can diminish her beauty.

Duty and desire are warring inside of him. Even though he renounced his vows and the Chantry won't take him back just yet, that doesn't mean he can simply jump into bed with someone when he feels like it, does it? _Yes, it does_, murmurs a voice in the back of his head. The same voice that told him his crusade against those that had murdered his family was nothing but a result of his ambition, his desire to rule Starkhaven; it had nothing to do with doing what was right. The same voice that has Vael questioning his beliefs and motives.

What is more, even while he was campaigning to gain support to retake Starkhaven, Hawke was never far from his mind. From time to time they would run into one another and exchange a few polite sentences. Then they would drift apart again and he would be stuck with the image of that bewitching smile of hers. He makes his decision, right then and there. Princes aren't meant for chastity. Abruptly he captures her lips in a kiss, which is slightly awkward at first. Then her arms encircle his neck, and her lips part to provide him with access. Their tongues intertwine. No time for foreplay, no time to be delicate – the urge is too strong. Vael promptly tears the knickers off Hawke's comely ass, bares his hard cock and drives it home. The girl receives him with a moan of surprise and slight pain. "Maker's breath, you move fast," she whimpers.

The hot, moist flesh that grips him brings forth this feeling of ecstasy that is almost too much to bear. Vael manages to hold off on blowing his load right away by thinking of Grand Cleric Elthina and one of her boring sermons. The boiling of his seed tones down to a simmer. Perfect. With long, slow, deep strokes he continues pumping into Hawke, his mind filled with naught but need. Her dead mother, his uncertainty over his motives, his now worthless vows; they are all but forgotten. Nothing exists, except his hard cock and the tight sheath it's buried in. Vael pays no heed at all to Hawke's pained mewls and the tenseness of her frame. For a moment he breaks their kiss to discard his tunic and rip away the girl's jacket. His mouth covers hers once more, his hands roughly taking possession of her round breasts. The prince doesn't even feel the tears that are flowing from his companion's tightly closed eyes. His fingers grip her tender flesh hard enough to bruise. Harder and faster he fucks her; his handling of her becomes more brutal by the second.

Years of pent-up lust, whose presence he hadn't even realized, flee his body with his violent climax. Buried deeper in Hawke than she can take, Vael fills her wildly contracting cunt with his seed. A feral growl issues forth from his throat; the savage waves of pleasure sear his senses. An eternity later, the man sinks into the pillows. So, that settles it, then. As he slips into unconsciousness, Vael contemplates how he will claim his birthright and rule Starkhaven like a worthy and just prince.

While Sebastian Vael sleeps the deep slumber of the spent and satisfied, poor Hawke curls up into a ball and mourns her mother in dead silence.


End file.
